Nocticadia: A Dark Academia Gothic Romance
Nocticadia: Chapter 30

Bored during work study, I found myself reading through texts in the Adderly Memorial again, and as it had before, the story of Mary Elizabeth sucked me into the history of the school. While a number of Adderly’s journals were off limits, I was able to get my hands on one that detailed some of the experiments performed on the patients. He described a young woman, only a year younger than me, who’d had an affair with a married man. Due to his respectable background, the clergymen of her town had decided that she must’ve been a witch to seduce someone so pious.

I scoffed at that.

As a result, the woman had been sent to the island to await trial. Dr. Stirling, who I’d read about last time–the creepy doctor who wore the plague uniform to ward off his patients’ bad spirits–had apparently convinced the clergymen that he had methods of saving her soul, and thus, had averted a public trial and burning.

I read on to replace her fate was no safer in the hands of Dr. Stirling, though. While in his care, she’d had one of her eyeballs removed, her tongue removed, and her mouth sewn shut. The notes detailed that she’d been fed Stirlic acid to purify her body, however her manner of death was excessive blood loss, after she was forced to bleed out for black blood.

I paused there, frowning.

Black blood?

Her mental health had declined significantly while at the monastery, and she had expressed terror over hallucinations and the feeling of snakes in her belly.

Again, I found myself staring off. Was it possible …

The note prompted me to scan for any other symptoms. And I found one more–glowing eyes, deemed to be a demonic trait. A few more pages in, I paused on a crude sketch of a human skull with sharpened black teeth. The accompanying note described it as having belonged to the Cu’unotchke tribe, who’d inhabited the island around the same time the first colonists arrived. They were deemed savages, monsters, by early Acadians, with black stone teeth supposedly used for tearing flesh, and eyes that glowed like an animal’s. I snapped a quick picture of the skull sketch, focusing specifically on the strange markings in the bone–thin and black, they almost looked carved into it, like tiny fissures.

My mind swirled with thoughts. Professor Bramwell had said there was a long-standing history of the organism. Was it possible that it went back as far as the 1700’s? He’d also mentioned bone striations as an autopsy replaceing, in my meeting with him, and that it had surfaced thirty years ago. Had his father been working on Noctisoma? Was that the basis of the Crixson study?

My thoughts quickly switched to earlier, in the lunchroom with Spencer, and the discussion of his father and Andrea Kepling, who had also mentioned worms in her belly. Bramwell had performed the autopsy on her. If what Professor Bramwell said was true, that he rarely stumbled upon cases outside of the island, and that it didn’t spread person to person, was it possible that Andrea Kepling had been from Dracadia?

Was it possible she had been one of the patients to escape the study?

I scooted myself over to the computer with its sketchy internet connection, and typed Andrea Kepling into the search bar, just as before. The article I’d already read was one of three results–two of which were newspapers that boasted the same headline about her attack on Lippincott. The third one, though, had been written by a blogger who went by the name of Anon Amos, and I clicked on it. While it gave much of the same details as the other two articles, there was one difference–it questioned Andrea’s participation in the Crixson Project, just as I had.

I immediately searched The Crixson Project, only to replace an article about the six unexplained deaths.

All deemed to be suicides, somehow.

All of them drownings, with no mention of the other two patients.

Intrigued, I dug deeper and pulled up another article that offered a very brief synopsis of the experiment, led by Dr. Warren Bramwell, a long-time professor at Dracadia.

Professor Bramwell’s father.

The project aimed to test an inoculation said to reverse the effects of insulin-dependent diabetes. Apparently, whatever was given to the women targeted the body’s immunity, blocking the lymphocytes that attacked insulin-secreting pancreatic beta cells. A possible cure for diabetes.

Except for the tragic outcome that quickly shut down the project. Unfortunately, not much was available on the alleged suicides.

After gathering up the journal, I quickly ran back to the check-out desk, where Kelvin checked in books on the computer. “Do we have any information on the Crixson Project?”

“We do, but I’m afraid those references are locked and inaccessible, due to the tragedy associated with the project.”

“Is there anything I can get my hands on? Maybe even just a synopsis of the project?”

“‘Fraid not, Miss Vespertine. Are you finished with Adderly’s journal? I need to get it back to the vault before I clock out for the evening.”

“Yes. Thank you.”

There had to be information about it. How else would Mel know so much?

Perhaps she had other resources that I could tap into.

On a sigh, I turned around, and across the science wing, I spied Professor Bramwell reading through some texts at one of the tables. The air in my lungs deflated like a balloon at the sight of the man hunched over a book, intensely studying with his fingers lodged in his hair.

“Can I trouble you for a moment?” Kelvin asked behind me, breaking me from my spell.

With a shake of my head, I spun around. “Absolutely. What do you need?”

He handed me a stack of physics texts. “Please return these to their shelves.”

“Of course.” I glanced down at the call number, realizing it was the same aisle where Professor Bramwell sat. Keeping my eyes on him, I carried the binders over, trying not to ogle the man while he studied–particularly when my head urged me to interrogate him about Andrea Kepling.

Don’t be a nuisance.

Why the hell did my pulse hasten when the man was in the room?

His gaze never lifted from the book flattened on the table below him, and when he rubbed the back of his neck, my fingers tingled for reasons I couldn’t explain.

Closer.

Closer.

I reached the aisle, my head spinning with how I could broach the topic of Andrea Kepling. Do you have to be so investigative all the time? my head chided. Just ask the weather. Or sports.

I hated sports.

Ask if he needs a goddamn water, but for the love of Christmas, do not ask about Andrea Kepling.

I neared the table, my nerves turning bolder by the second. Be audacious. Breath gathered in my lungs, and on a fruitless exhale, I kept on toward the shelf.

He turned his head just a little, as if he sensed someone passing.

I paused alongside him for a brief moment, lips parted for whichever of the millions of questions floating around in my head might’ve broken loose.

“Devryck!” a familiar voice called out, and I turned to see professor Gilchrist sauntering over, her eyes lit and focused on Professor Bramwell.

It was when I twisted back around that his eyes were locked on mine. A strange sensation fluttered in my belly, and I clutched the texts tighter, moving past him toward the shelves. In my periphery, I watched Gilchrist slide into one of the chairs at his table adjacent to his workspace.

“I’ve good news! I was able to secure dozens more uninfected specimens. The Preservation Society wasn’t thrilled, but they understood the importance of this research.”

Eavesdropping was such an unbecoming trait, but I couldn’t help myself.

“Wonderful. Thank you.”

A beat of silence hung between them, and I rounded the other end of the aisle to the next row over, pretending to shelve a book there.

“Why are you ignoring my calls?” She spoke in a lower voice than before, but I could just make out the words. “I’m … confused. I keep rehashing the last time we met up, trying to imagine what I could’ve done to upset you.”

“I’m not having this conversation again.”

“Devryck … I am …. I think I’m in love with you. I can’t stop thinking about you.”

Through the books, I watched his fingers tap impatiently on the table, his shoulders bunch with irritation. The more the woman talked, the more this bomb ticked.

“One more time,” she said in a flirtatious voice. “In my office. I promise I won’t call you again.”

“No.”

“No?” Brows winged up, she gave a look like she’d just been slapped. “Is it someone else?”

I paused, not so much as uttering a single breath, as I waited for him to answer. For some reason, I needed to know, too. Peering through the books, I caught the clench of his fist.

“Why won’t you answer me?” she prodded, clearly not picking up on the guy’s cues.

Stay out of it. It’s none of your business.

What had happened in the dining hall earlier wasn’t his, either, yet he hadn’t hesitated to step in. And I was grateful for it, too.

With a deep breath, I rounded the aisles again, and clearing my throat, I came to a stop at his back. “Professor Bramwell?” Heart pounding in my chest, I couldn’t believe I’d worked up the balls to insert myself into the situation.

He kicked his head to the side without saying anything in return, and I clasped my damp palms together to keep them from shaking.

“I tracked down the eukaryotic pathogenesis text that you requested.” A total lie, and I truly couldn’t believe the words were tumbling out of my mouth with such ease.

Frowning, he twisted in his seat and seemed to study me for a moment.

Please don’t make me look like an idiot. “If you want to follow me, I can show you where.”

Another agonizing beat of silence, and he rolled those broad shoulders back. “Yes. Of course.” He glanced back at Gilchrist, and I didn’t dare look at her right then. The woman was probably carving me up with a murderous glare. As he pushed to his feet, I finally chanced a glance, and the look on Gilchrist’s face blazed with something that sent a chill down the back of my neck.

“Professor Gilchrist,” I said in acknowledgement with a nod.

Her lips curved into a feigned smile.

With a jerk of my head, I urged him to follow me four aisles down, and once sufficiently out of earshot, I turned around to see he had, in fact, followed me.

Hands sliding into his pockets, he strode closer. “You’re either incredibly astute, or exceptionally nosey.”

Clearing my throat again, I lowered my gaze. “My apologies. You looked like you needed an exit,” I said, echoing his words from earlier in the dining hall.

Through narrowed eyes, he stared back at me in that unsettling, studious way of his. “You work in the science wing?”

“Yes.”

“How frequently?”

“Four nights a week, Sir.”

He stared a minute longer, the weight of his gaze bearing down on me. “Thank you, Miss Vespertine.”

As he stepped past me, I spun around. “Professor Bramwell, wait.”

When he paused, I instantly regretted my impulsive nature.

“May I ask a question?”

“Depends on the question.”

It was then or never. Snagging his full attention like that probably wouldn’t happen again. “I know you won’t tell me anything specific, but I wondered if you might answer one question regarding Andrea Kepling.”

He turned to fully face me again, but didn’t say anything. The question was etched in the tight knit of his brow, though. How do you know about her?

“I know she was sent here for autopsy.”

“And just how did you come by that information?”

“I’m not at liberty to say.” Having seen me with Spencer, though, I suspected he was smart enough to figure it out. While I didn’t want to rat Spencer out, my desperate search for answers pushed those concerns to the back of my priorities.

With an exasperated huff, he crossed his arms, drawing my attention to the bulge of muscle at his biceps. “What is your question? Bear in mind, I am not permitted to disclose any information regarding her medical record.”

Which meant I had to be clever in my inquiry. “Any thoughts on how she might’ve acquired Noctisoma?”

Cheek twitching with a smirk, he stepped closer. Closer. Until I picked up on a hint of his delicious cologne. “I never confirmed such a diagnosis.”

Yet, the fact that he didn’t outright dispute it told me he might’ve been lying.

I pinned him with a hard stare. “She claimed Lippincott put worms in her belly. She was sent to you for autopsy. I replace that highly coincidental.”

“Allow me to caution you, Miss Vespertine. You are a confused moth dancing about a wild flame. Blind to the incomprehensible danger of your curiosities.”

“I want to know the truth.”

“The truth is an intangible luxury of the powerful.”

I didn’t doubt that, especially in a place like Dracadia, but I refused to accept it. “I came here to replace answers, Professor. I’m not afraid to ask questions.”

“At what cost? Your scholarship? Your future? Your life?”

“Is that a threat?”

“Yes.” One step forward backed me against the shelf behind me, and he threw out his hand, creating something of a cage. “You have no idea who you’re fucking with.”

I’d been cornered by men before, terrified of them, but that wasn’t the case with Professor Bramwell. This almost felt like an invitation. A dare. Heart pounding in my chest, I gave a defiant tip of my chin. “Who am I fucking with?”

His gaze fell to my lips in a way that felt too intimate. Too riveted to mistake the thoughts that must’ve been churning in his head right then. “It’s fascinating how you can be so meek and bold at the same time.” His tongue swept over his lips, and I prayed he’d do something fucking bold, like press them to mine. “You are inarguably brilliant, so quit acting foolish. Leave this alone.”

He stepped past me, and once he rounded the corner, I blew out a shaky breath. Holy hell, the man was intense.

But not even Doctor Death could intimidate me at that point. My curiosity had been piqued. The walls of this place held dark secrets, past skeletons, that I intended to exhume with a sledgehammer.